


If It’s Real Love It’s a Misfit

by MayCSB



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, cressi fluff, don’t sue, this is fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-05 14:12:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15172427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayCSB/pseuds/MayCSB
Summary: Messi and Ronaldo are left by their partners around the same time. Misery loves company.





	1. Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Grizfolk song “Shaky in the Knees”. This is entirely fictional. I know very little about football but I’m doing my best to do decent research. I think this will be 15-25 chapters but we’ll see how it goes. Always pretty open to prompts and suggestions.

Georgina leaves him on a Tuesday. It’s not surprising, not really. He’s busy and the babies are needy and it just gets to be too much for her. He doesn’t blame her, it’s just the way it is, just the way things go.

 

He never really thought she’d stay for long.

 

But it’s hard on him, because while he wasn’t head over heels in love with her, he cared for her deeply, for the partner she was, for giving him Alana, for standing by his side through the rough patches that had adorned his path. He would forever cherish her continued support.

 

He’ll miss her company but he doesn’t think he’ll miss her.

 

His mother asks him, over and over again, if he wants her to move back to Madrid, to help with the kids and whatever else he needs, but he resists it. He loves his mother, but it’s off-season and he can handle the kids on his own (well, with the help of their nannies) and he finds solace in his solitary melancholy, and so he tells her he’s fine, it’s not the first time he’s been single, tells her not to worry.

 

He falls into a rhythm, gets the kids dressed in the morning, drops Cristianinho off at school, plays with the babies, nibbles at meals made for him, plays football with Cris late in the afternoon, puts the kids to bed, falls asleep early, sleeps poorly. It’s lonely and alienating.

 

He feels hollow, and he doesn’t understand why, because it isn’t like Georgina did much in the way of completing him. But she was a grounding presence in his life, he thinks, tethering him to reality, to normalcy.

 

He lies awake in his bed, his surroundings quiet except for the continuous humming of the baby monitors on his nightstand, his computer propped on his stomach. He scrolls through Marca’s front page, past “articles” he knows are idle gossip and blatant lies, until his eyes focus on one of them, the headline a bold, all-caps atrocity spelling “LEO MESSI - LEFT HANGING”. And for some reason he clicks on the picture, of a gloomy-looking Leo Messi leaving some restaurant, and lets his mind wander as he reads the article.

 

It says Antonella has left him for some other guy, that she’d been cheating, that Leo’s crushed, that he’s going for primary custody of the kids, and a bunch of other scattered information he takes with a grain of salt, because it is Marca after all, but something inside him stirs, a mixture of camaraderie and satisfaction, like suddenly he wasn’t all alone in his misery.

 

And for some bizarre reason he’d forever fail to understand, he scrolls down his contacts and finds Messi’s number - which he only has because they happened to share a car to the airport after all that mess in the World Cup, and resolves to text him, because, he tells himself, he’d’ve liked to have had a friend when it happened to him.

 

The message is short, just a quick “hi, how’re you doing?”, casual enough to pass as nothing more than an acquaintance trying to reach out. He goes to bed right after texting him, and he sleeps better that night.

 

———————————————————

 

He’s awoken early the next morning by Cris’ small body crashing against his, all clumsiness and impatience, the word “papai” echoing over and over as Cris tries to get his attention.

 

“Filho,” he says, voice thick with sleep “what is it?”

 

“You need to get up, pai,” Cris tells him, a tiny mass of agitation and annoyance, eyeing him up and down “I’m gonna be late for school. It’s parents’ day and you promised you’d come.” Cris whines, and it’s sort of cute, how he pouts and shakes his head and rolls his eyes, and it comforts Cristiano.

 

“I’m sorry, filho, I forgot,” he tells him, genuinely regretful “give me fifteen minutes, okay?”

 

Cris climbs off his bed and Cristiano watches as he leaves the room and closes the door behind him, getting up quickly to shower and get dressed.

 

It’s ironic, really, that of all days, that was the one in which Cristiano happened to forget his phone, still where he left it on the nightstand, for hours on end.

 

———————————————————

 

It’s well past eight by the time Cristiano finally gets back to his room, the children having been bathed, fed and put to bed with exceptional difficulty. His phone is a mess of notifications and texts when he finally gets to it, still plugged to its charger. Some of the messages and notifications are relevant, some are not, but there’s one that stands out the most: Messi has answered him.

 

His answer is short, and it comes in three separate texts:

 

“Oh I’m just great! My wife has left me and the entire world knows everything about it.”

 

And

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s been a tough few days.”

 

And finally

 

“I’m staying in Madrid with a friend. Do you wanna hang out?”

 

The message is four hours old and Cristiano curses under his breath, because for reasons he failed to understand, he badly, badly wanted to hang out. He types back a quick, noncommittal “sorry, been away from my phone. I’d love to hang out.” and hopes he’s not too late, hopes he’s not too eager. He has a lot of hopes for a man who keeps telling himself he’s just trying to lend a friendly shoulder.

 

The answer doesn’t take long, and Leo’s “should I come over?” does weird things to Cristiano’s stomach, makes it flutter, makes him wonder.

 

He types back his address before his mind can catch up with the rest of his body and convince him of how bad an idea it all is.

 

He waits by the door.

 

———————————————————

 

Leo arrives at ten thirty sharp, dropped off by what Cristiano can only assume was an Uber (which is almost *too* endearing). He has a bottle of wine in hand and he looks tired, all sunken eyes and careless stubble as he walks up to Cristiano’s door in a black shirt and jeans a size too big for him.

 

Cristiano opens the door before he can knock, and he looks confused (adorable) as he stands on his doorstep.

 

“Hi,” Cristiano says “I heard the car pulling over. It would’ve been less creepy to wait for the bell but the kids are asleep and they’re a pain to get down...” he babbles, as Leo stares at him intently “please come in.”

 

“Thanks,” Leo says, softly, passing him the bottle “your house is nice.”

 

“Oh, thanks,” Cristiano says leading the way towards the living room “I’ve got a good job.”

 

They both chuckle, and it’s both kind of forced and sort of good, like there’s something there, something great, something they haven’t yet found.

 

“I’ve heard.” Leo says, in response.

 

They’ve reached the living room and Cristiano motions for him to take a seat, dropping down next to him.

 

“I don’t know what to say.” Cristiano tells him, softly

 

“There isn’t anything to say, is there?” Leo questions “Sorry your wife left you because you were making her miserable. Sorry your family just fell apart. Sorry you just lost everything.”

 

“Leo...”

 

“Shit.” Leo says, and it’s surprising, because Cristiano never thought of him as a man who’s big on cursing “I’m sorry you’re an unwilling guest in my pity party.”

 

“I’m a very willing guest,” Cristiano says “I know how it feels.”

 

Leo smiles at him softly “How did you deal with it?”

 

“Not in any way worth bragging about,” Cristiano says, dropping his head in his hands “everything’s a mess.”

 

“Do you miss her?” Leo asks, leaning back into the couch

 

“I don’t know,” Cristiano answers, vaguely “I suppose I should.”

 

“But you don’t?”

 

“I don’t,” He answers, finally “I don’t miss her.”

 

“I miss Antonella.” Leo says, and there’s an edge to his voice, like he’s trying to keep from crying “Not this Antonella. I miss the one I married. The one I thought I’d have forever.”

 

“What changed?” Cristiano asks, leaning back as well, his shoulder brushing against Leo’s

 

“I think we did,” he says “it got too hard.”

 

“Is it supposed to be so hard?” Cristiano asks, and it’s a question he’s asked himself a million times over.

 

“I don’t think it is.” Leo answers, truthfully, looking at him.

 

They stay like that for a while, staring at each other, and it’s strange, how comforting it feels.

 

“I should go.” Leo says, getting up

 

And right there, something shifts inside Cristiano, some unknown and incomprehensible feeling. A feeling that makes him grab Leo’s arm and say

 

“Stay.”

 

It’s an uphill battle


	2. Shit

A familiar but distant feeling hits Cristiano as soon as he opens his eyes, his eyelids heavy and his head throbbing. He vaguely remembers the night before, remembers polishing off a bottle of wine and then another, and then suggesting liquor, and then shots. He remembers playing “never have I ever”, remembers doubling over with laughter, remembers tripping over his own feet as they made their way up the stairs and down the hall. 

And then he remembers who he was with. 

He remembers telling Messi to stay, remembers showing him to the guest room, remembers Messi’s hot breath on his neck as they hugged sloppily before they parted. 

It’s all a bit confusing and more than a little exciting. 

Cris has found his way into Cristiano’s large bed at some point during the night, and the warm mass cuddled up to him is a not-so-subtle reminder that the previous night’s events are a massive disaster waiting to happen, *especially* if his Messi-obsessed son happened to stumble upon his greatest idol, sleeping soundly a couple doors down. 

“Filho,” he nudges the boy awake “come on Cris, it’s time to get up.” 

“I’m sleepy.” Junior answers, his face buried in a pillow

Cristiano usually cherishes these moments, but he has to act quickly, before Junior can pad his way into the guest bedroom or, god forbid, Messi wakes up and runs into his kid in the hallway. 

There would be a lot to explain and not nearly enough ways to do so.

“Filho, you need to get up,” he insists “daddy has some things to take care of and Nina’s going to take you to breakfast and then school, alright?” 

He thanks his lucky stars for Cris’ nanny

“Breakfast where?” Cris asks, perking up

“Wherever you want,” he answers “but you’ve got to be quick, quick, quick because this is a limited time offer.”

The boy jumps from his bed and scurries off to his room, chanting “McDonald’s McDonald’s” over and over again as he makes his way down the hallway and into his bedroom

The twenty minutes it takes Junior and his nanny to leave the house are some of the most stressful of his life. When they finally leave, he lets out a long breath and walks towards the guest room, lingering by the door trying to hear any movement coming from inside. 

He doesn’t hear anything, and so he walks to the kitchen and grabs to mugs of coffee, thanking the cook as he walks away and back towards the room. 

He knocks and waits for an answer, but none comes, and so he walks inside, carefully closing the door behind him.

Messi is still asleep, and watching him makes Cristiano feel all weird, as if it’s an act too important, too intimate, to be handled without care.

He sleeps on his back, arms on his stomach, mouth in a soft pout that Cristiano desperately wants to kiss, his face framed by spiky, unruly hair. 

He looks gorgeous 

Cristiano sits beside him delicately, setting the mugs on the nightstand. He gently nudges Messi’s arm, whispering his name, trying to coax him awake

The first thing Messi feels when he opens his eyes is confusion. He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t remember how he got there, and he certainly, positively, doesn’t know why Cristiano Ronaldo is waking him up.

It all comes to him quickly, in a flurry of recollections that leaves him a little stunned. 

“Morning,” Cristiano says, and it’s entirely surreal, Messi thinks, and not just because the man looks perfect, but also because there’s no part of this he could’ve expected, not in a million years “how’re you feeling?” 

“Morning,” he responds, weakly “not that great,” he continues “I’m not much of a drinker, really”

Cristiano just smiles at him, understanding, and Messi remembers that he isn’t either. 

“I know,” he says “I brought you some coffee.”

Messi takes the mug from Cristiano’s hands eagerly, moaning in pleasure as the warm liquid hits his tongue 

“Good?” He asks

“Very.” Messi says, with a smile “Thanks for letting me stay the night.”

“It was my pleasure,” Cristiano responds “I appreciated the company.”

There’s a noticeable glisten in his eyes, and Messi can tell that he really means it, that he really appreciated his company and most of all, that he badly needed it. It gets lonely at the top, and even lonelier at the bottom.

“Any time.” Messi tells him, from behind his mug

“You really mean that?” Cristiano asks, and there’s something powerful about how vulnerable he sounds, how eager he looks.

“I don’t usually say things I don’t mean.” Messi says, looking at him intently

“That’s, um” Cristiano clears his throat “a very good policy.” 

He laughs first and Cristiano soon follows, because none of it makes any sense, not them hanging out together, not it being nice, not this interaction.

It doesn’t make any sense but it feels good, like the adrenaline rush you get from pushing yourself too hard during a workout, like the first wave of love you feel when you hold your child for the first time, like that moment of courage you get once it a lifetime and it changes everything.

Everything in that look is pure clarity.

There’s a beat, two, and then Cristiano kisses him, unexpectedly, sloppily, hungrily, like he went in uncertain but intends to take it all the way, take everything he can get. 

And Messi is kind of weirded out at first, because it’s too quick, it has very little buildup, but it makes perfect sense, because it fits. They just fit. 

He leans into it, into Cristiano, because he needs more, needs it all, needs to feel it, to let it sink, let his body and mind adapt to the feeling. 

If you were to ask him, later, what was on his mind as they kissed, he would confidently answer “nothing at all”. If you were to ask him, later, what was on his mind as their lips parted and he took in Cristiano’s face, all flushed skin and kiss-swollen lips, he would confidently answer that what was on his mind was:

“Shit.”

He was a goner from the start.


	3. Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo and Cris have their first date (and then some)

They sit there, looking at each other, hands firmly clasped together, for a long time. Neither of them wants to be the one to break the spell, to pierce the gossamer equilibrium that has settled between them, to put it at risk. 

“I’m sorry.” Cris says, finally, but it’s categorical, not remorseful, like it’s just something he thinks is right.

“Don’t be,” Messi says, moving to stroke his cheek “you have nothing to be sorry for.” 

Cris smiles at him, and it takes Leo’s breath away, because it’s a smile entirely different from what you’d see on a magazine cover on during a post-game interview. It’s warm, intimate, gorgeous. 

“Where do we go from here?” Cris asks, softly. He badly wants to know but is terribly afraid of the answer, terribly afraid that Leo thinks this was a mistake, a stray dalliance, something to be forgotten and left behind. 

Afraid Leo will think he’s someone to be forgotten and left behind.

“We start from the beginning.” Leo says, confidently.

Everything about Leo is surprising to Cristiano, because he is entirely unlike what he could’ve expected, entirely unlike the media portrays him. 

He’s so much better. 

“We go on a date,” Leo says “if you’d like.” He continues, pulling Cristiano’s hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles

“Yeah,” he says, exhaling “I’d love that.” 

———————————————————

Setting up the date is challenging, because they obviously can’t be seen together in public, Cristiano’s house is permanently crowded, Leo has to go to court, they both have practice, there are seven children whose routines can’t be disrupted. 

They try numerous times, but something always comes up: Leo’s court date has been pushed up, Eva comes down with a bad cold, Leo can’t get a flight out of Barcelona. It’s frustrating and infuriating and more than a little annoying. 

And Leo’s had enough, because everything in his life is utter garbage and Cristiano is the only person who can make him feel marginally okay, who can make him feel *good*. They text and FaceTime, but he wants more. 

So he figures out a deal with Antonella, gets her to take the children for the weekend, calls for a temporary truce. He drops the boys off and heads straight to the airport, his head filled with possibility, hoping his plan will work, hopes Cristiano will follow along. 

It’s past five when he arrives in Madrid, his heart pounding on his chest as he texts Cristiano the address to his hotel and room number, adding a quick “I’ll be expecting you at eight, hope you can make it” 

The answer comes two minutes later, in the form of seven smiley face emojis and an “I’ll be there”

Leo smiles all the way to the hotel

————————————————————————————  
Leo’s freaking out. It’s a quarter past eight and he paces around the room, his eyes hovering over the whole setup he’s put together. He had them send up some flowers and candles, ordered room service, some sort of braised duck dish that smells positively heavenly, plus chocolate covered strawberries and champagne (everything Leo knows about romance comes, admittedly, from those Nancy Myers movies Antonella made him sit through countless times) and set everything up as nicely as he could. 

He’s terrified Cris won’t show up. 

He’s pulled out of his stress-induced trance by a soft knock on the door, followed by a “Leo? It’s me.” 

Leo opens the door and has to take a second to catch his breath, because it’s really happening, Cris is there, they’re about to have their first date, and everything feels so surreal, so unlikely. 

“Hi,” he says, finally “come on in.”

“Hey,” Cris answers, looking at him “sorry I’m late. Junior needed help with his homework and it took a little longer than I expected.”

Leo just nods and ushers Cris in, closing the door the door behind him. 

“What’s all this?” Cris asks, pointing towards the table with the (unnecessarily large, Leo admits) flower arrangement and the cloches. 

“Oh, you know,” Leo says, feigning casualty “we can’t go to a restaurant but I figured this could be as good as,” he continues “do you like it?”  
“It’s perfect,” Cris responds, moving to stand in front of him “hey.” he says, dark eyes glued on Leo’s lips

“Hi.” Leo answers, staring at him

Cris closes the space between them then, crushing his lips against Leo’s as if they held substances necessary to his very survival, his hands finding the back of Leo’s head, then his neck, his hips, exploring his body like Leo’s personal Magellan, mapping every inch, every nook, every cranny. 

They stop to take a breath, foreheads touching, and the only thing in Leo’s mind is a question “how in the hell did I manage to get so damn lucky?”. Cris holds him tightly, Leo’s smaller body fitting Cris’ perfectly, like it was meant to be, like he belonged there.

“Are you very hungry?” Cris asks taking Leo’s hands in his

“Not really.” He answers, because honestly, the last thing on his mind was food

“Good.” 

It’s the last thing he says before leading Leo to the bed

As it turns out, Cris is as skilled and nimble in bed as he is on the pitch, his fingers smart and tender as he preps Leo, eyes dark with pleasure but focusing only on making him comfortable.

Cris enters him as if he’s his rightful place in the world, his personal loca sancta, his home, as if he belongs there, simply, as if he couldn’t be anywhere else. 

Leo couldn’t remember ever feeling that good. 

————————————————————————————

Afterwards, they lie together, Leo’s head against Cris’ chest, listening to the soft thudding of his heart, Cris drawing lazy patterns on Leo’s back. Leo never wants it to end, wants to stay there forever, in that moment, basking in the peace Cris emanates, in the comfort. It scares him because it’s too much, too intense, too frightening. 

“Leo, stop overthinking.” Cris says, kissing the top of his head  
“I wasn’t.” Leo lies

“You were, querido.”

“How’s this gonna work, Cris?” Leo asks, looking up at him

“It just will.” He answers

“That’s not a very good answer.”

“It’s gonna work because we’ll make it work,” Cris tells him “we want this to work, right?”

“Of course.” Leo answers 

“Then it will,” Cris says “I always fight for what I want.”


End file.
